


A Story for Another Day

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Can Hear Longing, Coda, Episode: s08e07 A Little Slice of Kevin, Episode: s11e14 The Vessel, M/M, Remember?, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6062962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You do <em>not</em> tell Sam,” he’d said, and then he’d turned away (because Cas had just stood there, his blue eyes serious, quiet, as though the whole world hadn’t just tilted around them), opened the door, and walked out.</p><p>And if Cas can hear Dean’s love, then Lucifer can find them.</p><p>That is the simple truth of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Story for Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> So that was fun! Let’s see if we can make it worse!

Sam hadn’t wanted to take the Impala, but Dean is still the older brother, goddammit, and if he wants to make a bad decision, then he’ll fucking _make_ one.

“Every demon from here to Texas knows what that car looks like,” Sam had said, shifting his duffel bag on his other shoulder. “That’s how they found us before.”

“Lucifer’s not a demon,” Dean had replied, knowing full well it was a stupid argument.

“You think he hasn’t killed Crowley by now? When we were - there, he stayed behind, remember?”

Ignoring Sam, Dean had walked forward, stuffed his own bag in the Impala’s trunk. He hadn’t been thinking about Crowley at all, truth be told, but, well - Sam had been right, and Dean had been just about ready to _kill_ something, because the idea of Crowley gone -

(It shouldn’t be like that. It shouldn’t hurt so damn _much_. 

It shouldn’t, in fact, hurt at all.)

“Shut up and get in,” he’d said, and what that meant was, _I just lost everything - I’m not leaving my Baby behind_.

And also: _If this is how he’ll find us, well, bring it on. It’s high time we fucking ganked the fucker_.

And so Sam had gotten in.

It’s only now, about forty miles later, that Dean realises. He hasn’t been thinking about Cas, okay? He hasn’t. Because, like, he really doesn’t care. What Cas chooses to do with his own life is his business. It’s not like they owe each other anything. By now, whatever debts there are between them have been repaid tenfold. So, no, Dean hasn’t been remembering that last time he’d looked at Cas as himself - he’d known Cas was terrified of Lucifer, even more than Dean himself, perhaps, because Dean was human and couldn’t begin to understand what, exactly, Lucifer _was_ \- but still, Cas had walked into that cage with him; Cas had looked at him for direction, Cas had _fought_ when Dean had told him so. Which is one of the reasons why Dean hasn’t been thinking about him at all.

But the thing is, it's hard not to think about Cas because Sam hasn't stopped talking about him. He hasn't dared to talk to Dean about it, not yet, but he’s been on the phone since they left the Bunker - first with Jody, then with Donna, next with bloody Garth, and they haven’t seen _him_ in forever, so why would Cas - why would _Lucifer_ go to him for help? 

(And what could any of them even do against an _archangel_ , anyway? All they have is one stupid warding sigil, and good luck with it.)

And then Sam had decided he absolutely needed to tell Eileen as well, and that was the moment Dean had chosen to roll his eyes, because, really? Eileen had never even _met_ Cas. 

“Lucifer knows who she is, though,” Sam had said, earnest and serious.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

Sam had shook his head at Dean, all wounded and hurt, like suspecting him of ulterior motives was something insulting, borderline sick; and then he’d started texting, slow, careful bubbles he would write and rewrite before sending, and he hadn’t stop grinning since.

No, Dean hasn’t been thinking about Cas and he hasn’t allowed Sam to discuss the thing with him, either. Sam has tried, of course - he’d grabbed his arm when they were still in the Bunker, and he’d looked sideways at him when they were driving through Lebanon, but something on Dean’s face must have made him chicken out from actually mentioning Cas at all.

And so Dean stares straight ahead and tries to ignore that annoying feeling tugging at his stomach; a soft, apologetic, _I don’t want to make your life worse but you’re forgetting something_ kind of thing that’s been bugging him since he and Sam have fought over the car.

He knows it’s important, and he’s learned to trust his instincts, but he also knows it’s about Cas and Cas is something he is, well, not thinking about.

Not because it's too painful, or anything.

Not because it's so goddamn excruciating it could very well bite into him and _end_ him.

Not at all.

No, Dean simply steps back from it without any reason whatsoever, and something about the flat landscape and the general misery makes him thinking about Delphine instead.

Which doesn’t make him feel better.

 _All roads lead to the same destination_ , Cas had told him once. And Lucifer, of course, had needed to pile it on, because angels are annoying dickbags who believe in destiny and can’t think for themselves and fuck up everything when they do and - 

( _Whatever you do, you will always end up here._ )

Dean doesn’t understand time-travel. Never has. He’s seen _Back to the Future_ , of course, more than once, but what he likes about it is the idea of going back and invent Metallica - all that other crap about falling in love with your own mother has always seemed like a bit too much. He never got Doc’s incoherent ramblings, either. All that mess about parallel futures and whatever. No, what he _does_ understand is that he needs to man up, right the fuck now. 

Because the truth is, Delphine was always going to die.

The crew as well; even that kid who liked _Flash Gordon_.

(Dean wonders, briefly, if someone had been waiting for him back home. A young wife, perhaps. A girlfriend. Someone who would never know the truth about it - that it had been _their_ fault, all of it, because if that bloody weapon had not been on board in the first place, then -)

Sam laughs at something Eileen texted, and Dean unclenches his hands from the wheel.

He needs to stop thinking about it, because it doesn’t matter if Delphine had reminded him so much of Mom that he can’t even see straight; it doesn’t matter if she’d had the same fiery, biting spirit; it doesn’t matter if she’d pinned him against a wall and beaten him up and threatened to stab him, just like Mom had done, because both of them had been ten times smarter than him, had known had once he’d been pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

It doesn’t matter at _all_.

Funny how, by this point, the list of things that don't matter is so much longer than the list of things that do (one item in there: Sam). 

He never managed to save Mom because the past can’t be changed; and if the things he’s seen in Detroit never came to pass, well, that’s because the future _can_ be changed. And that’s the only thing he needs to think about. The past is set -

( _All roads lead to the same destination, Dean._ )

\- but the future is not. Which means that it doesn’t matter why Cas did what he did. They can fix it. They can get him back.

They _must_ get him back.

Because, once again, Dean is not thinking about Cas. He’s not thinking about Cas’ hands around his throat. He’s not thinking about Cas’ eyes staring at him in complete indifference. He’s not thinking about Cas pulling him to his feet after he’d been sick; about Cas touching his face, passing a hand through his hair.

(Dean had been too weak to say much; too weak not to wish the thing could go on and on, could become -)

And then it comes back to him, and he swears out loud.

“What?” asks Sam, alarmed, almost dropping his stupid phone.

But Dean can’t tell him _what_ , because there is no _what_ involved - it’s a _who_ , and it’s been a _who_ for a long time now.

“Nothing,” he says, his heart beating way too fast. “I almost fell asleep.”

“I can drive, if you want.”

“Nah, I just need coffee.”

Sam turns on the radio, just in case, because he knows Dean is weird about driving and when he says he’s okay he’s almost always lying. He also knows it’s useless to argue with him on this (on most things having to do with this car).

Dean tries to listen to the music, to really focus on the words, but, again, that motel bathroom seems to materialize around him - he sees himself, and then Cas, all dirty clothes and dirty skin and that beard Dean hadn’t found endearing at all - a beard he hadn’t wanted to feel against his own skin, really _not_ (he hadn’t thought, not for one _second_ , about the burns it would have left on his stomach, on the inside of his thighs; hadn't wanted to pass his fingers through the soft curly hair).

“Hello, Dean,” Cas had said, because that’s what he always says; in the very beginning, Dean had wondered if Cas had needed to remind himself that this was an individual human he was talking to - if Cas was sort of accessing all sort of Dean data whenever he said his name ( _Dean Winchester, born January 24th, 1979, 6 feet, hates to fly, boxers briefs, once ate a cockroach on a dare_ \- Dean could almost see the letters over Cas’ head in those first months, he’d wondered, in a vague, unfocused way, if those were things every angel knew about him, or if Cas had come to learn so much about him because he’d held Dean’s soul in his hands, and, _Jesus_ , wasn’t that the gayest thing _ever_ ), because, come _on_ , it wasn’t normal to say someone’s name, like, all the time; and then he’d come to realize Cas simply _liked_ it - he liked the reminder that he was here, on Earth, with Dean, that Dean wanted him around, allowed Cas to say his name. 

(Because where Cas comes from, names are a big deal. Give your name to someone and they have power over you.

Which, in a way, is how it works on Earth as well, come to think about it.)

Dean had been so shocked to see Cas in front of him - he’d spent so much time imagining he’d seen Cas - Cas had moved inside his dreams, but also in more prosaic places - a crowded diner, the side of the road - Sam had mentioned once, a bit diffidently, that he used to see Jess in the streets. That it was a part of grieving.

Dean had scoffed at him.

So many people had died around him. Cas was no different from any of them.

(Except he _was_ , goddammit. He _really_ was.)

“Hello, Dean,” Cas had said, as if no time had passed at all; and Dean had just stared at him, had not been able to move, to close the distance between them, because, as glad as he was to see Cas again -

( _Glad_ , as bloody if - it had been something much beyond joy; it had been fresh water and clean air and boundless relief and gratitude and - _everything_ , because his life without Cas - because -)

\- he still hadn’t known how to act around him.

 _Do something like that again, and you’re dead to me_ , Dad had said, when he’d caught him kissing a blue-haired boy in that New York’s club.

And Dean hadn’t.

Men don’t hug. Men don’t kiss each other.

( _I’m not gay_ ; and also, _Oh God_.)

So he’d just stood there, had forced out an incredulous _How_ , because it hadn’t made any sense, none of it.

How had Cas found him? He was warded against angels; they both were.

“I could hear it,” Cas had said, and then he’d looked down, had frowned to himself. “Though _hear_ is not, perhaps, the right word,” he’d added, as if this were a question of semantics, as if -

“Hear _what_?”

And Cas - Cas hadn’t wanted to say. Dean had read it on his face, because that’s what he’d been trained to do - he’d seen Cas look at him, then away again.

“You were praying to me,” he’d said in the end, his voice very low in the badly lit room.

Dean had shaken his head.

“No,” he’d said. “No, I wasn’t. I thought - I thought you were _dead_ , man.”

“Prayers do not have to be formal. I can pick up on -”

( _Oh God_ )

“- a longing. I could feel you loving me, Dean. Needing me here.”

( _Oh God_ )

“I do _not_ -”

“Dean? Everything okay? Are you talking to someone?”

Dean had just looked at Cas, then, unable to deny what was so suddenly clear and stark between them.

“You do _not_ tell Sam,” he’d said, and then he’d turned away (because Cas had just stood there, his blue eyes serious, quiet, as though the whole world hadn’t just tilted around them), opened the door, and walked out.

And if Cas can hear Dean’s love, then Lucifer can find them.

That is the simple truth of it.

Which means Dean will simply have to - keep doing what he was doing anyway: not think about Cas.

Easy as pie.

He never thinks about Cas, after all.

And he hasn't been thinking about Cas for the past few hours.

Not for a second.

(Not about how alone Cas must be in there; about that terrifying moment Cas had heard Dean come up with his crazy idea about the submarine; about Cas realizing he could do nothing but trust Lucifer to overcome the wards and get Dean the fuck out of there before the whole thing exploded.

Trusting Lucifer to actually fight for something and care enough to see it through. _Right_.) 

Dean turns up the volume of the radio even if Sam always bitches about it; he fills his mind with lyrics and numbers and memories of what his life used to be (driving Sam to school, and his wrestling coach, and those sugary cereals they used to eat straight out of the box with their fingers) as he drives on.

He doesn’t think about Cas when he stops in a fancy gas station and gets enough stuff to last them for a few days; he doesn’t think about Cas as he gets back to the car, finds Sam already on his computer, connected to some sort of wifi, looking for signs of demonic activity or any evidence, really, that Amara is doing something other than waiting for Dean to come to her.

(That's on the _Not Caring_ list as well.)

He’s still not thinking about Cas when they finally stop, in a desolate, remote place - hopefully one demons can’t track, because Sam is still worried about the car, insisted they drive until every city and house and trucker place was but a memory in the rear window - and thank _God_ it’s almost night, and then he’ll be able to swallow a few sleeping pills and -

“So,” starts Sam, sitting down by his side, and he clearly wants to talk about it, and no thank you.

“So,” Dean says, as repressively as he can; not that it’s enough (nothing is enough; not these days).

Sam glances at him, clears his throat.

“Cas,” he says, and how can a single word contain all those other things?

(The unspoken admission that, yeah, Cas is _his_ angel, not his brother’s, though Dean never saw it coming, and wasn’t that idiotic of him. The apology which is left unsaid and yet is strong enough to brim over, because it’s Sam’s fault Lucifer is walking around, but, then again, it’s because of Sam Lucifer couldn’t destroy the Earth, because his kid brother took on a bloody archangel and won and almost lost his soul and life and sanity in the process, so. That tinge of annoying, _I’m not Dad_ understanding; that _You can tell me anything_ which is always, always there, and how can Dean say anything back? Of course it’s alright to feel the way he feels. He knows that. He’s not a kid. But there’s no need to discuss it because Sam doesn’t get it - because Sam is still thinking they will make it out - the dreamy way he’d spoken about _not marriage, but whatever_ , and how he’s been texting Eileen every chance he gets - Dean can see it plenty well, and he knows his brother is a fool for holding on to hope; and he also knows this is Sam, and he may be a million feet tall but he’s still the child Dean used to coax into his jammies and rock to sleep, so there’s no way he’ll _ever_ say the truth to him - that it’s over, that they can’t do it, that this time they won’t make it out, so they might as well stop trying.) 

“Yeah,” it’s what he says, and he looks at the lake, and he doesn’t think about Lucifer smiling his Cas smile at him.

_Hello, Dean._

Sam purses his lips, shakes his head.

“Yeah, what do we do?”

Dean shrugs.

“What else? We hunt Lucifer, trap the bastard, and save Cas.”

This is how they move forward. There is no thinking involved. It’s family first; always has been. 

Family: the word is safe inside his mind. He never wanted to think about Cas any other way, and now he can’t, because it turns out that thing which has been growing and growing inside him is actually dangerous; is actually something which may very well kill them both.

And Sam doesn’t need to know that. Because Sam doesn’t get it.

“Like I said, Lucifer may be in control now, but Cas may not come back willingly. I mean, he chose it,” he says, and now Dean wants to _hit_ him.

He even wonders, for a second (but it’s still too long; it’s still unforgivable) if this is why Lucifer chose Sam: for his stubborn, idiotic belief in absolute free will. Is this what Lucifer saw in his brother? A deliberate flare of arrogance, and the idea that people can do what they want (get lost in Purgatory; _die_ ) and he can just bugger off because it was their choice? Because it wasn’t his fault, because he’s not responsible for anyone but himself?

Dean lets the annoyance (the envy) spark and die down.

Because people make bad choices all the time, and Sam may be alright with that, but Dean _is_ responsible - for all of them. That’s the way it is. He’s been responsible for Sam his whole life, of course (and hadn’t it been fun to be proven, time and again, how spectacularly he’d failed at that), and now he’s responsible for Cas, because Cas is honest and noble and completely fucking _useless_ and such a _child_ and Dean can’t -

 _Whatever you do, you will always end up here._

“No,” he says, not looking at Sam. “No. Not possible.”

There is one thing, though, that Sam can do well, and that is hearing the anger in Dean’s voice before Dean is aware of it himself. He backs off, and Dean can almost _feel_ him backing off, which, of course, makes no sense whatsoever, and relaxes slightly.

“So how'd you get through today? I mean, what did you do?” Sam asks instead, and Dean shakes his head - pushes out every thought of Cas ( _Forgive me_ ), because he won’t allow Lucifer close to Sam, not again.

“Nothing,” he says, and just like that, he sees Delphine, and, like before, her face becomes Mom’s, which is bloody unfair, and when will this ever end. “Sam, they - I was just a witness.”

That other time, though, Cas had been there. Dean remembers the exact moment Cas had come back to get him - remembers feeling the slight warmth of Cas’ presence even before Cas had put a hand on his shoulder - he’d later come to understand that warmth was against his - his _soul_ , or his _mind_ , or whatever the fuck, and not his skin - he remembers the way Cas had looked at him - how for the first time, Dean had allowed himself to think that maybe angels could understand - maybe they could even _care_ \- that maybe he was not alone, not truly - 

“Do you want to talk about it?” asks Sam, softly, and Dean clenches his jaw.

“No,” he says. “No. Story for another day.”

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I am so tired of real life. Two more great people died today - Harper Lee and Umberto Eco - and sometimes I feel I can't - that it's all going terribly wrong, and how do we stop it?  
> Which is stupid. They were both old, and seemed okay with what they'd done with their lives, and that, I guess, is the best any of us can expect. I should just walk it off, or something.  
> And I know everybody loves _To Kill a Mockingbird_ (they must, right?), and it's true Eco's novels are much stuffier and full of difficult stuff. Personally, though, I'm choosing to forget all the sweat and tears I spent over them, and to remember Eco as the guy who once bought a run-down castle because he wanted to walk its corridors at night and feel alone and terrified (he did this as he was writing _The Name of the Rose_ , and I think it shows). Because we're all a bit crazy, in the end, and it doesn't actually matter.  
> Life is a beautiful, mysterious thing.


End file.
